


just keep one foot in front of the other

by unbridgeabledistances



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but much fluff and comfort in chapter two, chapter one is a little bit heavy!, husbands being vulnerable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbridgeabledistances/pseuds/unbridgeabledistances
Summary: Ian tried to quell the rage rising up inside him. “Who, Mickey.” He bit out. “Who did this to you.” He leaned closer, putting his hand on Mickey’s leg to keep himself from clenching his fists.Mickey wiped his eyes, his gaze still foggy and out of focus. “Some… asshole in a leather jacket.”-Based on the tumblr prompt: Gallavich married. Mickey is the Alibi. Some dude is eyeing him but he couldn’t care less. Somehow the dude managed to put something in his drink. He manages to take Mickey of the bar and starts kissing him. But Ian shows up because someone called him and beats the dude. After Ian takes care of Mickey.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 39
Kudos: 257





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> big trigger warning for sexual assault/physical violence! 
> 
> also this takes place pre-season 11, bc the pandemic isn’t a thing

It was an oddly busy night at the Alibi, the shitty pop music playing low and stirring the chatter of the fifty or so regulars packed into booths, reaching across tables to swig beer and talking loudly over the music. Mickey was sitting at the bartop, nursing a beer, mostly because he didn’t know where else to go or what else to do with himself tonight. He and Ian had been married for months now, but he kept telling Ian they were still on their “honeymoon”—mostly, if he was being honest with himself, because he was scared shitless of having to try and find an actual job. He didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself—his entire employment history involved either some degree of illegal scamming or working for his dad, most of the time both of those things, and now that he was trying to stay out of prison for Ian and had repeatedly been almost murdered by his own father—well, let’s just say Mickey was cutting himself some slack for taking a few months to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to be doing with his life. For now, he had a terrified laundromat owner writing him paystubs, and life was good— he could afford to milk this for a few months longer, could afford to chill and waste a few hours drinking the night away.

Mickey’s train of thought was cut off by Kev passionately clanging a beer glass down onto the bar, engaged in some sort of fiery debate with Tommy and Kermit about the pros and cons of legal weed in Chicago—from what Mickey had gathered when he was trying to tune their banter out, Kev was mulling over the idea of opening a pot business out of the Alibi— which would be an excellent idea, if Kev didn’t have fewer braincells than the amount people in the bar right now. And maybe even that was generous; ever since V had the idea to do half-price-tequila Tuesdays, the Alibi was weirdly the place to be on a Tuesday evening. So now, this was Mickey’s weekly ritual—sit at the bar away from the crowd, ignore the mindless chatter swirling around him, drink a series of cold beers, and try not to feel too sorry for himself while he waited for his husband to get off from a late shift at the Amazon warehouse where he’d just gotten a job. Mickey clicked on his phone to check the time. 8:43. _Ugh._ Still another hour and a half until Ian would be home, until Mickey would leave this fucking barstool and slowly walk home and smoke a cigarette and get into bed to wait for him…

He raised his glass again, slowly sipping the foam of his beer and staring at the pattern of the grain of the wood on the bartop. Usually by this point on Tuesdays Mickey would be shooting the shit with Kev, playing pool with Sandy in the back corner, doing anything to take his mind of off everything; but tonight, Mickey could feel the sneaking fear of loneliness blooming in the pit of his stomach, the same fear he’d felt years ago when he’d be sitting at home while Ian worked nights at the club. Was this going to be it? He was hitched, he was out of prison— Ian was off doing something with his life, meeting interesting people, and Mickey was stuck behind, like always. He swigged his beer again.

“Hey. You look like you might want some company.”

Mickey turned to identify the voice that piped up behind him. Some sleazy, hipster-looking dude in a leather jacket was sidling up to the bar—a Ray-Ban wearing, man-bun sporting douchebag that smelled like cheap hair gel. He placed a hand on the bartop next to Mickey’s beer, very nearly crowing into his space.

“I’ve seen you around,” Hipster Dipshit continued while Mickey pointedly avoided eye contact and took another sip of his drink. “Where’s your dyke pool teammate? She’s always hogging your attention when I’m here on Tuesdays.”

Mickey scoffed, and turned sideways to face the asshole who was crowding into his space head on. “Yeah, sorry Bon Iver, but that ‘dyke pool teammate’ is definitely more of my priority than you are any night of the week.”

Hipster Dipshit leaned in closer, nearly pressing Mickey’s side into the bar. Mickey froze, just for a moment—he’d been hit on by women and ruthlessly shut them down quickly, sure, and he could take on an asshole in a bar any day of the week— but there was something about this encounter, about an obviously gay dude flirting with Mickey, that made him falter for a moment. Ian had gotten hit on by men hundreds of times— it was literally his job, for fuck’s sake— but no guy, especially in the fucking Alibi, had ever hit on Mickey. So even though this gentrifying, cologne-smelling piece of shit was the scum of the earth by Mickey’s standards, he was thrown off his game for just a moment, and let the man’s leather jacket graze against his skin.

Hipster Dipshit was leaning his arm fully onto the bar when Mickey finally snapped out of it, gently shoving the asshole squarely in the chest and rising from his stool.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to give me some space before I break your fucking skull, man.”

Hipster Dipshit gave a crooked smile as he put his hands up in surrender and stepped away from Mickey’s stool, nearly bumping into Kermit’s back in the process.

“Woah, got it chief.” He said smoothly as he backed away from Mickey, turning to grab his jacket from an empty corner booth. “Enjoy your beer, I’ll see you around.” He gave a sleazy wink, dropped a twenty on the bartop, and signaled for Kev as he walked past Mickey’s stool once more. “His next beer’s on me.” Then he pulled on his jacket and walked out the door, letting a cool breeze in as it swung shut behind him.

Kev came over to retrieve the crisp twenty waiting on the bar. “You know that dude?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows and took the final sip of his beer. “You think I know that slimeball of hair gel? Hell fucking no.”

Kev raised his eyebrows. “Huh. He seemed kinda gay. Should I be telling your _husband_ you’re letting strangers buy you drinks while he’s at work?” Kev winked and gave a playful smile as he set a new glass of beer down in front of Mickey.

“Fuck you, I’ll take every penny I can get from that asswipe. That’s the first time any sissy like that has ever hit on me anyways.” Mickey sipped his new beer, then pressed the frosty glass to his cheek. _Huh_. He was feeling a little… well, he didn’t know how he was feeling, but the room was starting to feel a little too warm, a little too full. Mickey’d been hit in the head plenty of times, he knew what it meant for a room to spin, for it to start to get soft around the edges and start to fade. _The fuck?_ He closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the sensation of the cool beer glass pressing into his cheek.

“Hey, Mickey, man, you okay?”

Mickey didn’t even want to imagine how pale his face was right now—all he wanted to do was focus on getting out of the crowded bar as soon as possible, away from the boozy smell and the sticky floors and the heat of all the bodies around him. He opened his eyes to a very blurry-looking outline of Kev, staring at him with what he assumed was concern.

Mickey stumbled up off the bench and grasped for his jacket on the stool next to him, feeling his head start to spin. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” he choked out. “Gonna head home. Just, uh, put the rest of that twenty towards drinks for Sandy if she and Debbie come in later.”

Kev’s brows furrowed. “Yeah, sounds good, but you sure you’re okay?”

Mickey didn’t respond, and instead he made a beeline for the door, trying to keep his steps as chill and normal as possible so he wouldn’t topple over and draw more attention to himself. He’d only had three fucking beers— there’s no _way_ he was this drunk. _What the fuck is happening to me?_

Mickey almost breathed an audible sigh of relief when he finally flung himself outside the Alibi’s front door and a fresh gust of winter air hit his face. It was just too hot and stuffy in the Alibi with all those fucking people, that was it—he was just too bogged down in his stupid fucking emotional thoughts, that’s why he was feeling so weird, he just needed to clear his head…

A familiar, smooth voice came from beside him. Mickey nearly winced at the sound.

“There you are! Finished in there already?”

Mickey turned, trying not to stumble over his own feet, and saw the same leather-jacket-wearing hipster leaning against the wall to his right, holding a cigarette. Smoke floated in front of Hipster Dipshit’s face in the darkness, blurring his face even more than it already was in Mickey’s splotchy field of vision.

Mickey opened his mouth, trying to form some sort of coherent comeback for the douchebag; but all that he could muster up was a slurred “Fuck… outta here,” as he tried to shuffle his feet forwards.

Hipster Dipshit chuckled, and put out his cigarette on the bricks of the front wall of the Alibi, standing up straight from where he was leaning.

“C’mon, tough stuff. Why don’t we go have some fun?” he purred.

He was doing it again— pressing close to Mickey and making his whole body tense up, making alarm bells go off in his brain. This felt different than some macho straight dude at a bar fucking with him— in those situations, Mickey could be the predator that knocked someone on their ass any day of the week. This time, Mickey was the prey; this time, Mickey was frozen. He tried to shove Hipster Dipshit and his shiny leather jacket and his too-big grin away, but his arms were like putty— hipster dude just grasped his arm, and circled his fingers around Mickey’s wrist.

“Why don’t we go somewhere a little more… private.”

Before Mickey knew what was happening, his feet were being dragged out beneath him across the concrete, into the secluded alley next to the Alibi, between the conveniently-placed dumpsters that were mostly there as a service to anyone wanting to pay a stranger to jack them off behind the bar. Hipster dude was boxing Mickey in, his rough jacket pressing up against Mickey’s body, his scruffy face close, way too close, his cheap cologne burning Mickey’s nostrils like gasoline. Mickey tried to focus on something, on anything, to clear his head and muster up the energy to fight back; he tried to center his eyes on the dim streetlights swirling just beyond the alley, tried to focus on the murmur of cars driving by in the street as his head continued to spin.

Hipster Dude was pressing his whole body against Mickey’s now, groping his hands up and down Mickey’s body and reaching his hands under his shirt, leaving sloppy kisses on his neck and trailing up to his chin.

“See, now isn’t this nice? I’ve had my eye on you in there for weeks, and now we can finally hang out.”

Against his will, Mickey could feel tears welling up in his eyes; immediately, he squeezed them shut. It was like everything was happening in slow motion, like every unwanted touch was branding his skin— if only he hadn’t been sitting at that fucking bar feeling sorry for himself, then he would have been home right now, and he’d be laying in bed waiting for Ian…

 _Fuck. Ian._ Mickey clenched his eyes shut even tighter, feeling his breath catch in his throat and tears burn hot in his eyes. Married a few months, and already he was fucking cheating on Ian— this had to be cheating, didn’t it, since Mickey was the one who didn’t tell this guy to cut his shit out at the bar? Didn’t he _want_ the guy to hit on him, didn’t he like how exciting it felt in that first moment? Mickey took his twenty dollars for drinks, Mickey egged him on— that had to count as some sort of infidelity. Ian was too good for him anyways—of course the universe would eventually take Ian away again, would make Mickey push him away. Ian was working his ass off for them to get a new place, meanwhile Mickey was making out with some random dude behind a bar.

Mickey limbs were heavy, like flimsy taffy; he tried one more time to push Hipster Dude off, to detach his lips from his, to rip the fingers from the button of his pants. He thrust his body forward with all the energy he could muster, throwing Hipster Dipshit off-balance. Hipster Dipshit just stepped back, wiped his mouth, and looked Mickey up and down from the opposite side of the alley, panting.

“Ugh. You’re not as fun as I thought you’d be.”

Mickey let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry, finally free from the iron grasp that had been holding him against the wall. He slouched, sliding down the wall and collapsing to the filthy ground of the alleyway like a ragdoll. His head was pounding, he could barely see what was in front of him; he tried to focus on the pieces of trash on the ground, on the streetlights reflecting off the puddles in the alleyway, on anything he could see to make his vision stop swimming.

Mickey didn’t know how long he laid there; it could have been twenty seconds, or it could have been an hour of laying on the sludgy, garbage-covered ground, just trying to stay awake. He felt completely numb; he should have been angry, maybe, at the asshole who drugged him, or worried about how he was going to get himself home; but mostly, all he could think of was Ian, and how he was going to explain this to him, explain how he just couldn’t make it _stop_ , and how by some sick joke some random dude hitting on him felt like the only thing Mickey couldn’t fight against.

Mickey laid there between the dumpsters, closing his eyes tight to stop the waves of dizziness.

After what could have been hours, he felt a gentle hand card through his hair.

“Hey. Mick. Hey, you gotta get up.”

Mickey willed himself to open his eyes. He was met with Ian’s face inches from his, the first clear thing he could see in hours, two comforting pools of green meeting his eyes. Ian’s hair was mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it like he did when he was worried; he just kept staring directly at Mickey, his eyebrows furrowed in concern and confusion, steadily waiting for Mickey to reply.

Mickey tried to build the energy to speak. “Ian?” he croaked. _Fuck fuck fuck._ “How’d… why’re you here?” he asked weakly.

Ian’s face was unchanging, his gaze still cutting Mickey open with worry and confusion. “Kev texted me. He said you looked like shit when you left the bar, so I ditched work early. Mick, what the fuck is going on? Are you drunk or something?”

Mickey could feel the tears blooming in his eyes again as he rested his head on the concrete— _Keep it together. Just tell Ian what happened. Just tell him everything._ But Mickey couldn’t open his mouth, he couldn’t make a sound. There was no way Ian was going to want to still be with him after this— how could he? Mickey _cheated_ on him, he couldn’t even push some weak stranger off of him. In what universe would Ian want to be with him after Mickey told him what he did? Ian was going to see Mickey for who he truly was, and then Mickey was going to lose the best thing in his life.

He could feel Ian’s arms guiding his shoulders up off the ground, gingerly moving his limbs so he was sitting against the dumpster. Mickey tried to avoid his eyes, worried what Ian would find if he looked into them. Ian wasn’t touching him— he was just staring, not physically in contact with any part of Mickey’s body but leaning in close, nearly a centimeter away, like he was scanning to see if Mickey was okay. Mickey could feel Ian’s eyes on him, feel the concern and care radiating off of him. It made Mickey’s stomach churn. How could he let himself throw all of this away?

Before he knew what he was doing Mickey was collapsing forward, and sobbing into Ian’s sturdy shoulder that was positioned inches in front of his face. He could feel Ian’s arms wrapping around him, cradling the back of his head, holding him closer—and Mickey let himself be held, let his limbs hang loose while he left salty tearstains on Ian’s jacket. Ian didn’t say anything—he just kept his arms encircled around Mickey, propping him up with a firm grasp. Mickey knew he owed him an explanation, knew Ian was probably wondering what the fuck was going on— but right now, all he could bring himself to do was lie there limp in his husband’s arms, unable to stop himself from letting the sobs rip through his chest. If Mickey was going to lose Ian tonight, he needed _this_ first.

Ian’s thumb started to rub slow circles on the back of Mickey’s neck, at the back of his hairline, still holding him firmly in place and propping him up against his chest. Mickey could feel his lungs burning and saltwater staining his cheeks. He tried to control his breathing, attempting to quell the tidal wave stirring inside of him. Everything just felt so massively fucked up, and these was nothing he could do to go back in time and change it.

After a few minutes more, Mickey was able to take a deep breath, his eyelids stinging and waterlogged. He could feel Ian breathe a silent sigh of relief, his muscles loosening ever so slightly in their grasp around him. Ian leaned forward to burrow his face into Mickey’s hair, still sitting there in silence, letting Mickey sit there limply.

Ian leaned back, then gently guided Mickey’s face off of his shoulder to look directly at him.

“Mick, what the _fuck_ is going on?”

***

Ian didn’t know what to expect when he got a random text from Kev, telling him to come to the Alibi and get a drunken Mickey, while he was in the middle of a graveyard shift at his brand-new mind-numbingly boring job; maybe that Mickey was in some sort of fight and fucking up his parole, or that he and Sandy had downed one too many beers in the corner of the bar and were heckling all the hipsters that seemed to come to the bar on Tuesdays.

But what Ian wasn’t expecting, as he turned the corner towards the Alibi with a sneaking fear rising in his chest, was to find his husband laying in the alley before he even reached the bar’s front door, facedown on the garbage-covered concrete between the back dumpsters, his hair disheveled and his coat lying in a puddle across the alleyway.

_What the fuck?_

Mickey got drunk sometimes, sure, but Mickey would never let himself get this sloppy—and Mickey would definitely never let himself get into a risky one-on-one fight in an alley that he knew he couldn’t win, especially on parole.

Ian’s brows furrowed as he speedwalked to where Mickey was curled up, trying to keep his cool and still his racing heart. He ran his hand through his own hair as he stood above Mickey, instinctively doing a quick body scan and letting out a quick breath of relief when he noticed there wasn’t any blood on the ground or on Mickey’s clothes. He crouched down to where Mickey was laying with his eyes squeezed shut, like he was awake but trying to block out the world.

Not seeing any bruises or blood near Mickey’s face, Ian gently ran a hand through his hair.

“Hey. Mick. Hey, you gotta get up.”

Mickey’s eyes fluttered open, but his gaze was clouded over; he stared intently at Ian, like he couldn’t believe that he was really there, like he couldn’t get his eyes to focus. His head was still resting heavy on the garbage-covered ground. Then Mickey closed his eyes again, like he was trying to concentrate— maybe he was just really fucked up, after a night of too many tequila shots?

“Ian?” Mickey sounded confused, like he couldn’t quite believe Ian had found him. “How’d… why’re you here?” he asked weakly.

Ian’s heart skipped a beat. _What the fuck is up with him?_

“Uh… Kev texted me. He said you looked like shit when you left the bar, so I ditched work early. Mick, what the fuck is going on? Are you drunk or something?”

Mickey broke his gaze, and turned his eyes downward to the concrete again—whatever was going on, Mickey was definitely not okay—maybe someone had hit him in the head, or given him a concussion? Ian couldn’t really tell with Mickey’s head still resting on the ground. Immediately, Ian propped his arms under Mickey’s shoulders and tried to sit him against the dumpster so he could see him properly.

Now that Ian could actually see him in the slanted light coming in from the main road, Mickey looked absolutely wrecked; his eyes red-rimmed and his clothes disheveled, his shirt half unbuttoned. Ian scanned him once more for bruises, for blood; other than being absolutely wasted, Mickey looked totally fine. Which was maybe a little bit more concerning— why the fuck was he so out of it?

Ian kept staring Mickey down. Mickey wouldn’t meet his eyes, and it seemed like he was doing that thing he did when he didn’t want to be vulnerable with Ian, when he thought he’d done something wrong so he avoided Ian’s gaze. After a couple moments, Ian thought he could see Mickey’s eyes start to get watery— which was possibly the weirdest part of this whole situation. Mickey _never_ cried, especially after a dumb bar fight—in all the years they’d been together, Ian had barely heard Mickey's voice get weepy, aside from when Ian was about to leave for the army or get locked away in the psych ward. Flesh wounds were flesh wounds, but they never made Mickey tear up like this.

Ian was contemplating his next move, and thinking about how the fuck he was supposed to drag Mickey all the way home, when all of a sudden Mickey’s head crashed into his shoulder. Ian froze—what was going on? Mickey was limp against his body, and uncontrollably started to sob. Cries ripped through his body, like a waterfall was roaring through him, like a dam was breaking open. _Okay. Something fucked up_ _definitely happened._

Ian didn’t really know what to do—all he knew was that Mickey needed to be held. He wrapped his arms around him, trying to keep his tearstained face from slipping off of Ian’s shoulder. He ran his hands through his hair, and rubbed his thumb on the back of his neck, hoping to soothe him. Mickey just sobbed and sobbed, his cries raspy and jagged.

After a couple of minutes, Mickey’s breathing finally started to even out and his limbs grew heavy again. Ian breathed out a sigh of relief. He had no idea what was going on, but Mickey was here in his arms, Mickey was safe. He pressed his face into Mickey’s hair, smelled the scent of his sweat and cheap shampoo, just letting his lips press against the crown of Mickey’s head for a moment.

After a few moments of silence, Ian pulled back, trying to guide Mickey’s head off of his shoulder to look him in the eye. He needed some answers, and he needed them now.

“Mick, what the _fuck_ is going on?”

Mickey’s pupils were starting to return to normal; he looked like he could actually focus his eyes on Ian for a few moments, staring directly at him like he was building the courage to say something. Mickey bit his lip, and touched his own face with his hand like he always did when he was trying to keep his shit together. Then he glanced at the ground again, staying silent.

That was when Ian saw the bloom of red on Mickey’s collarbone, peeking out from under his shirt collar. Slowly, Ian lifted his hands to Mickey’s upper chest, gently pulling the neck of his shirt down. His neck and his collarbone were totally wrecked; there was a series of punctuated hickeys, beet-red bite marks that looked like they were put there with more aggression than passion. Ian’s fingers froze on the fabric of Mickey’s shirt, now noticing Mickey's unbuttoned jeans and the fingermarks on his waist. They looked like they fucking hurt—did Mickey cheat on him, is that why he was so fucked up right now? Ian couldn’t bring himself to believe that was the case—if Mickey cheated on him, why was Mickey willingly sporting a series of large purple bruises and lying in a heap between the dumpsters?

Ian’s blood started to run ice cold. He tried to gather Mickey’s gaze again, carding his fingers through his hair.

“Hey. Mick. What happened to your neck?”

Mickey’s shoulders hunched over as he fixed his gaze downwards, and he started to jaggedly breathe in and out, like he was about to start sobbing again. There was no trace of Mickey’s post-fight bravado, no sense of anger or revenge spewing out of him; Mickey was sloppy and crumpled as he started to choke out an explanation.

“I tried to stop him, I fuckin’ tried I swear, but he put something in my drink and I couldn’t stop him, and I’m such a fucking jackass, I couldn’t stop it, and now I lost you again—”

Ian tried to quell the rage rising up inside him. “Who, Mickey.” He bit out. “Who did this to you.” He leaned closer, putting his hand on Mickey’s leg to keep himself from clenching his fists.

Mickey wiped his eyes, his gaze still foggy and out of focus. “Some… asshole in a leather jacket.”

Leather jacket? Who the fuck would be sporting a leather jacket in the Alibi? It seemed like something that only that new crowd of scrawny hipster dudes that were there on Tuesdays would wear to the bar; no Southsider would be wearing a leather fashion statement on a freezing night like tonight. Ian’s heart was starting to race again, adrenaline pumping in his veins; he was going to find whoever the fuck did this.

Mickey still didn’t seem angry, or thirsting for revenge now that he’d said what happened; he seemed absolutely fucking shattered, his eyes still glassy and staring at the ground, his chest shaking as he tried to breathe evenly.

For his sake, Ian tried to keep his cool.

“Okay, Mick, listen to me,” he said quickly in a low voice. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re gonna sit here, and I’m gonna go inside and ask Kev exactly who this fucking asshole who did this to you is. Then I’m going to come back out here and take you home, okay?”

Mickey’s eyes flickered back up to him, just for a moment. He raised his chin in a half nod, then squeezed his eyes shut again.

Without stopping for a second, Ian rose and turned the corner, sprinting towards the door of the Alibi. The room was still crowded with people, sloppy gentrifiers in their mid-twenties sporting denim jackets and smelling of cheap tequila and clove cigarettes. Ian clenched his teeth and made his way through the crowd to storm up to the bar.

“Hey, Ian, glad you made it! Did Mickey get home okay?” Kev’s voice cut through the chatter as he placed a shot glass in front of some drunken girl in a Hawaiian shirt at the end of the bar.

Ian curled his fists in his coat pockets and walked over to where Kev was standing behind the bartop.

“Kev. Who was Mickey talking to before I came in here?”

Kev raised his eyebrows, confused by Ian’s intensity. “Ian, man, don’t worry about it, Mickey totally wasn’t into it or anything like that, the guy was just fucking with him and Mickey told him to leave, there’s no reason to be jealous—”

Ian tried to keep his temper down, blood running hot through his veins.

“Kev, listen. That fucking asshole put something in Mickey’s drink, and Mick is fucked up beyond belief outside right now. I need to find out whoever did this.”

Kev’s brows furrowed. “Shit. That dude drugged Mickey?”

Ian nodded vigorously. “Yeah. D’you know who it was?”

Kev ran a hand over his beard in disbelief. “Jesus, that’s why Mick was so out of it.”

Ian was losing his patience. “Kev, please, help me out here.”

Kev craned his neck, scanning the bar. “Huh. Okay. He was sitting over there a little while ago, but he left right before Mickey did…” His voice trailed off. “Fuck.” He slowly placed his arm on the bartop and beckoned for Ian to lean in close. “He’s the dude with the man bun and the glasses. Pool table.”

Ian felt something swell in his chest. “Kev, thank you.”

Kev winked, but his eyes were still full of concern. “Hey, uh, remember you’re on parole, yeah?”

Ian didn’t respond—instead he turned and zeroed in on Man Bun, who was effortlessly leaning against the corner of the pool table with a cocktail in his hand. Ian felt himself move across the room in slow motion, felt every step as he moved nearer to the man who was responsible for the love of his life laying limp and broken in an alley.

Ian immediately invaded Man Bun’s personal space, plucking the cocktail glass out of his hand.

“Hey, you buy my husband a beer earlier?” He tried to keep his voice even, but the question came out more like an aggressive growl.

Man Bun looked confused for a second, eyes flickering to the cocktail glass in Ian’s hand—and then a knowing smile crept onto his face. “You mean the rugged Tuesday night beer drinker? Shit, I didn’t know he was taken.” His tone was too bright, too cheery.

Ian stepped even closer. “Yeah, well. He is. And you know where he is right now?” Ian snarled, his voice low. “He’s where you left him in the fucking alley, you piece of shit.”

Ian didn’t stop to wait for Man Bun’s reply—instead, he swiftly connected his fist with the side of his face, knocking his glasses to the floor. Man Bun’s knees gave out, and he immediately fell to the floor, bouncing his head off the bartop. Ian geared up to hit him again— until he felt someone grab his arm.

Kev was standing behind him. “Dude. Parole.”

Ian clenched his teeth, and shook Kev’s hand off his arm. He tried to even his breathing, but he could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Man Bun was laying on the ground, propped on his elbows, and put a hand to his head.

“What the fuck, man? Your boyfriend’s gonna be totally fine, this was just a big misunderstanding.”

Ian nearly lunged at him again, but Kev placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ian. C’mon. We don’t want someone to call the cops.” He gently tried to turn Ian’s torso away from where the asshole was still sprawled on the ground. He put both hands on Ian’s shoulders, trying to ground him. “Let’s take Mickey home, yeah?”

Ian could feel bile rising in his throat. _Mickey_. Mickey was still sitting in a fucking alley, Mickey was still drugged and weak and covered in bruises…

He could feel Kev’s hand on the small of his back, guiding him towards the door. “He’s outside?”

Ian weakly nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so the beginning of this ended up being slightly more angsty/heavy than i had initially planned, so tw for vomiting at the very start- otherwise lots of comfort/processing is heading your way, ty so much for reading & for the prompt!!

Mickey stirred awake slowly, trying to force his heavy eyelids open. Slanted sunlight streamed into the bedroom, warming the sheets where he and Ian slept. His head was pounding, and he felt like he’d been hit by a truck— it was like his brain was clouded with fog, like he was swimming through a thick sea of haze and couldn’t quite string any coherent thoughts together. He closed his eyes again, blocking out the sunlight that was starting to make his eyes sting. _The fuck happened last night?_

With his eyes closed, Mickey tried to focus on the sensations that didn’t hurt to feel—like the fact that his head was curled onto Ian’s chest, and that Ian’s hand was at the base of Mickey’s spine, pressing him in close. Mickey took a deep breath, inhaling the sunwarmed scent of the laundry detergent from Ian’s tank top where his face was pressed. _Huh._ That was weird— it sounded silly, but it was unusual that he and Ian went to bed clothed after a night out, especially if Mickey was this hungover the morning after. Mickey tried to string together the series of events from the night before, but his mind was a blank slate.

Suddenly, Mickey noticed the scratchy, stiff fabric of the shirt he was wearing against his skin— and in an instant, the memories from the night before came flooding back to him, breaking through the haze and the morning’s soft light.

_Fingers ripping open the buttons of his shirt, firm hands pressing into his hipbones, unfamiliar lips running down his neck…_

Mickey’s heart instantly started to race, his chest tightening. That was the thing about mornings; they always could make you forget the darkness of the night before, just for a moment, until the memories finally rushed in. Mickey couldn’t control his heart thudding heavy in his chest—he could feel his throat closing up, his palms starting to sweat, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could think about was being in an alley, pressed up against a wall, by some man that wasn’t Ian, by someone who was holding him down and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do to take it back…

Mickey felt like he couldn’t breathe. _I’m gonna be sick._

Instantly he sprang up from the bed, stumbling off the mattress and hurdling across the hallway into the bathroom, barely able to kneel on the cold tiled floor before he was heaving and spluttering into the toilet bowl. _Jesus_. Mickey winced at the burning feeling in the back of his throat. He spit into the toilet bowl once more, then reached his heavy arm up to flush the toilet and close the lid.

At least he felt a little bit better now, at least his heart had stopped racing—but even thinking that made the panic start to loom in his chest again. Mickey couldn’t let himself relax— Ian was going to wake up soon, and when he did Mickey was going to have to explain what happened, and Ian was finally going to see him for everything he was, would finally leave for good once he realized what Mickey had done.

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned his head forward onto the cool plastic of the toilet lid, willing himself to disappear. He wanted to dissolve away, cell by cell, so that the thudding pain in his head, the dull ache in his chest—all of it would just float away.

Mickey suddenly felt a hand gently grazing the back of his neck, and fingers running softly through his hair.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.”

Mickey fluttered his eyes open again, turning his head upwards to lean slightly into the touch. His gaze still felt foggy and sleep-soft around the edges, but he could focus on Ian crouching next to him, right at his eye level, his eyes wide and earnest and steady. If he was being honest, Ian looked like absolute shit; his skin was pale and sickly like it always was after a sleepless night, and his eyes were puffy and ringed with dark deep-purple circles even though he’d just woken up. Mickey’s heart dropped. Of course Ian had a sleepless night; Mickey had probably told him everything before blacking out. All he could remember was being sprawled in the alleyway, trying to muster the strength to get up, and Ian must have eventually come to get him. That realization caused an even deeper pang of guilt and shame to twist somewhere deep in Mickey’s gut— Ian was supposed to have a regular sleep schedule to stay on top of his mental health, and it was a fucking Wednesday, which meant Ian was skipping a shift at his brand-new job right now to be here with Mickey even though he was stressed about paying the bills…

Not to mention that Ian had probably found Mickey in an alley, kissing someone that wasn’t him, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair disheveled. Mickey felt the nausea growing in his stomach again—he felt slimy and disgusting and turned inside-out. He just didn’t know how the fuck he was supposed to fix this— not when the choice was taken away from him the moment that asshole at the bar walked up to him, the moment he had leaned over the counter with his too-big grin and his fingers had hovered over Mickey’s drink.

Mickey focused on keeping his breathing even, trying with every fiber of his being not to cry in front of Ian. He couldn’t cry, not now— not when he needed to try and fix this. He needed to make Ian understand how sorry he was for last night, needed to keep Ian from walking out the door— he just needed to build the strength to do it first. His head was still throbbing— he could feel Ian’s fingers thread gently through his hair and that did a little to soothe the pain, not that Mickey felt like he deserved it.

He could feel the heat radiating off of Ian’s body, still leaning in close and gently running his hands on the back of Mickey’s scalp with almost painful tenderness, letting the silence swell. Ian’s soft touches kept Mickey rooted, reminding him that he was still in his body as he sat hunched on the bathroom floor. From the glance Mickey stole at Ian when he opened his eyes, Ian looked like he felt as horrible as Mickey did; his pale skin was almost translucent in contrast with the dark circles under his eyes. His eyes stayed fixated on Mickey, searching for the answers to the thousands of questions Mickey knew were swirling around in his mind.

Mickey could feel all the things unsaid that were hanging in the air between them, brittle and stale, so heavy it felt like he was going to suffocate. One more minute, then he’d say something. He had to.

He felt Ian’s fingers gently leave the back of his scalp and trail down the side of his neck, as delicate as a feather. Mickey felt the dull pain under Ian’s fingertips on the sides of his neck, where he knew there was a series of purple bruises and almost-broken skin— it didn’t hurt, not really, but the memory of lips on the side of his neck made Mickey wince.

For the first time all morning, Ian spoke.

“Does your neck… hurt?” His voice was deflated and raspy, and it made Mickey ache.

Mickey raised his chin slightly in a half-nod, his eyes still half-closed and his head still leaning on the lid of the toilet. Yes, his neck hurt, but these fucking bruises and bite-marks were nothing compared to the gaping hole in his chest right now, the fact that his heart was beating out of control again, so quickly that it was going to burst out of his ribcage and explode. Mickey didn’t know what he was doing— he didn’t know how to fix the fragile thing that was broken, the thing that was bleeding out in front of him— but he had to try. He cleared his throat quietly, then finally forced his eyes open to meet Ian’s pained gaze.

“I’m… Ian, I’m sorry…”

He could only choke those few words out before he felt what little energy he had deflating out of him like a balloon, his voice starting to shake. How the fuck was he supposed to apologize for this? In what world would Ian want to stay with him after everything he’d seen, after everything Mickey had done…

Ian’s eyes widened with surprise and a trace of relief, like he’d been waiting for Mickey to speak for hours, like this was the answer to all of his prayers. He reached a hand over and ran in swiftly through Mickey’s hair, then leaned in close.

“Mick, why the fuck are you apologizing to me?”

He kissed the top of Mickey’s head, quickly and gently, like he was swept up in the moment. Almost reflexively, Mickey flinched—he wasn’t sure if it was because he still felt guilty, and Ian was just too _close_ , or if it was because this was the first touch bordering on intimacy anyone had given him since last night—regardless, Ian noticed the shiver that ran down Mickey’s spine and immediately inched away.

“Sorry,” he whispered in a low voice.

Ian’s hand was still limply resting on the back of Mickey’s neck; Mickey felt another wave of nausea swirling in his stomach, and closed his eyes again. He just needed his body to get its shit together, and then he could talk to Ian…

Mickey willed his mind to become blank, sitting there with his legs cramping up on the cool tiled floor, focusing on the sensation of Ian’s hand running soothing circles on Mickey’s upper back.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian’s husky, sleep-soft voice spoke up again. “D’you want to go back into bed? I can get you some ice for your neck.”

Mickey could have audibly moaned with relief at the thought of being in bed again; he looked up at Ian again.

“Yeah,” he choked out, his throat gravelly. “Sounds good.”

One side of Ian’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile, his heavy gaze finally catching a spark of light.

“Okay, let’s go to bed.”

Ian’s arm braced his back as Mickey rose to stand, and guided his aching body across the hall and into their bed. Immediately Mickey let himself collapse onto the mattress and sink his head into the familiar scent of Ian’s shampoo on the lumpy pillow. Ian leaned over the bed to yank down a string and close the blinds, enveloping the room in a comfortable darkness that made Mickey’s sharp headache start to dull; then Ian lifted the scratchy crocheted blanket from the corner of the bed where it was crumpled in a ball and spread it over Mickey’s sprawled body.

“Be right back, gonna get you some ice.”

Ian gently slid the folding door shut, allowing Mickey to lay there engulfed in total darkness. Immediately, Mickey felt tears start to sting in his eyes. How the fuck was he going to fix this, and why the fuck was Ian being so caring and forgiving after everything he’d seen? He pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes and exhaled, trying to focus.

He heard the sound of the sliding door again a few moments later, and opened his eyes to Ian placing an ice pack on the bedside table along with a glass of water and a small bottle of painkillers. Ian hovered near the bed like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself, like he was scared to come too close. Everything just felt so fucking weird, and so fucking fragile, like the air was hanging heavy between them. It was time to rip the bandaid off.

“Aren’t you mad, Gallagher?” Mickey mumbled into the pillow. He could hear how defeated his own voice sounded, how flattened and rough around the edges.

“Mad?” Ian’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Mickey, how could I be mad at you right now?” He stepped closer to the bed, like he was about to climb in, and then paused. “Mick, can I… d’you want me to not touch you? If I got in the bed, would that be okay?”

Mickey felt a soft pang in his chest at Ian’s concern. He thought about it for a moment; his body was aching and he definitely couldn’t take any sort of demanding intimacy right now, but he needed to be near Ian. He needed Ian’s soft touch to dull the pain of all the other touches; he knew that Ian couldn’t scrub his skin clean of the last 12 hours, but at the very least he could make it sting less.

Mickey nodded, and met Ian’s desperate gaze. “C’mere.”

Ian breathed out a sign of relief, and immediately lifted the covers and hesitantly laid beside him, not touching any part of Mickey’s body but leaning in close, nearly a centimeter away. Immediately, Mickey bridged the gap and folded himself around Ian’s side, nuzzling his head onto his chest.

Ian instantly got the message and wrapped himself around Mickey, cradling him into his chest and intertwining their legs. He scratched the same soothing rhythmic circles on Mickey’s upper back as Mickey’s face buried into his tank top; he could feel Ian’s heartbeat thrumming beneath him, the same measured, constant sound that he fell asleep to every night and woke to in the morning. Ian’s body near him was the most constant thing in his life, and had been the stuff of his dreams for half of Mickey’s lifetime; being near Ian always made Mickey’s own heartbeat return to normal, always made everything feel less big or scary or overwhelming as fuck. Mickey let himself drink in the feeling of Ian’s skin pressed against his, of being wrapped in the warmth of his body.

“Mick, that guy did some serious shit to you last night,” Ian’s voice ghosted through the darkness after a moment, and Mickey could feel his chest vibrating as he spoke. “We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to, but you’ve gotta know that none of that was your fault. You know that, right?”

Mickey swallowed. _No, I don’t know that, and neither do you_. “How… when did you get there?”

“I got there soon enough to see you drugged and unconscious in the alley by yourself. Kev texted me the minute you left the bar, said you weren’t acting like yourself.”

Mickey’s eyes stung with tears against Ian’s tank top, and he tried to keep his voice from wavering as he spoke. “Ian, I let that asshole do that to me. I let him flirt with me, I didn’t knock him out cold the second he started giving me shit. S’all my fault.” Mickey swallowed as his voice broke. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Ian pulled back, quickly and almost aggressively, making Mickey’s head plop off his chest and onto the pillow. Ian looked straight at him with a subdued intensity, his gaze sharp and focused. “Mick, listen. You were drugged. You were fucking… attacked. No part of what just happened was your fault. We could press charges, lock that guy up. What he did to you…” Ian took a deep breath, like he was trying to calm himself down. “What he did to you was fucking sexual assault. No one should _ever_ have to go through anything that. Ever.”

In the darkness, Mickey could make out tears starting to swim in Ian’s eyes.

“I wish I could take what happened last night away from you. I wish I could make it disappear.”

Mickey raised a hand up to Ian’s face, wiping under his eyelids where the traces of tears were beginning to spill over. They were both going to hurt—this situation, the whole goddamn thing, just fucking sucked. But Ian wasn’t mad—Ian knew that Mickey had been with someone else, had put himself in that situation, and Ian still wasn’t leaving.

“Feels like my fault,” Mickey mumbled quietly. “I just keep playing it over and over in my mind. Being with someone else. Not being able to fucking stop it.”

Ian reached over and pulled Mickey in close against his chest again, carding a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t your fault some asshole put drugs in your drink. And it definitely wasn’t your fault that he took advantage of you. You did absolutely nothing wrong.” Ian swallowed. “It made me so fucking mad, Mick. I could’ve fucking killed the guy who did that to you last night. I should’ve.”

For the first time the entire morning, Mickey felt the ghost of a smile break through his zombie-like state, turning the corners of his lips up slightly. “Thought I was the one with homicidal tendencies, Gallagher.”

Ian breathed out a surprised laugh, then leaned his head to tenderly kiss Mickey’s forehead. “Yeah, don’t be too sure about that. If I ever see that guy again, I might have to give you a run for that title.”

Mickey felt himself exhale a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. Ian _knew_ ; he knew the whole thing wasn’t Mickey’s fault. And for some reason, Mickey was starting to believe him— Mickey had grown up thinking that he had to protect everyone all the time, most of all protect himself, and if he couldn’t do that then he’d failed; but sometimes there were bigger, darker forces than Mickey could fight against, or at least bigger than he could fight by himself. Like his homophobic piece-of-shit dad, like the cartel that was still chasing after him, like disgusting predators at bars; this shit made Mickey’s life sink to low points, but he didn’t have to fight them alone, not when Ian was next to him.

Curling into Ian’s side, Mickey thought back to the night before— not the worst parts, that would definitely be stuck like glue in the darkest corners of his brain for weeks and months and years to come— but the part before, when he was sitting by himself at the bar. He’d felt so fucking sorry for himself, because he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, didn’t know what his purpose was while he’d convinced himself that Ian was off finding his.

Now, with a stunning clarity, Mickey realized that his purpose was right _here_ , and it had been the whole time. Mickey had always felt best when he was near the people that he loved; he’d gone on runs with his dad and schemed with his brothers because that was just what you did when you were a part of the Milkovich family, how you showed people that you cared. The whole time Mickey had been working for his dad it was because he loved him, in some sick and twisted familial way. And even after he came out to Terry, just before he and Ian got engaged, he and Terry were still able to exist in the same space; Mickey was still able to say Ian’s name to his dad, and was still able to soak up Terry’s pride when he did something right, when he made the perfect moves to sell the guns they were hauling. And then Mickey got engaged, and actually committed to Ian, and suddenly Terry’s conditional love was being pried out from under Mickey’s fingers; suddenly, Mickey didn’t have a purpose anymore, didn’t have a job to do.

And maybe that’s why he felt so shitty lately, while he was still on his “honeymoon”; he and Ian were married and out of jail, and yet there was still that part of the picture missing, of Mickey feeling like he was doing things for a reason, for a family. He’d always called Ian his family, but it didn’t hit him until now how deeply true that was.

Lying in bed with Ian, Mickey realized that this was all he needed; building a life together, being an uncle to Franny, maybe taking in some kids of their own who were sleeping on stoops or under bridges. Mickey had always said he was fucked for life, because he didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do except follow in the Milkovich footsteps—but now, for the first time, he was seeing himself as someone who actually had a fucking future to look forward to, because he had someone to catch him when he fell, to catch him when the universe threw him every curveball imaginable. He didn’t have to just scrape by and survive anymore— he was worth more than that. 

“Ian.”

“Yeah?”

“I fucking love you. So much it scares the shit out of me.”

Ian pulled Mickey even closer to him, so he was practically on top of his chest. “I love you too, Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for reading!! let me know if you guys want me to potentially add more chapters about mickey recovering from trauma- this was a really rewarding prompt to write (though defs a Lot heavier than what i’m used to writing!) & i’d love to explore it more:)
> 
> also feel free to leave more prompts on tumblr/in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> chapter 2 is coming very soon- featuring processing, healing and lots of comfort!
> 
> as always, comments/kudos make my heart happy<3


End file.
